Apricots and Leaves

Two apricots, still on the branch. Not arranged — found. The way they lean into each other carries the weight of something unspoken: closeness that doesn't require explanation, presence that doesn't demand attention.

The black ground doesn't frame them — it holds them. What surrounds them matters as much as what is rendered. Ripeness here is not abundance; it is a moment of perfect equilibrium before the turn. The water drops don't decorate the surface — they mark time passing over skin that won't hold its form forever.

The reflection beneath is barely there. A memory of the object, not a copy. It asks whether what we see is the thing itself, or what we've made of it.

To live with this painting is to accept a particular kind of stillness — one that knows what it costs. It speaks to collectors who understand that restraint is a form of generosity: the image gives just enough, and trusts the viewer to bring the rest.